Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Makai remained in place. "You haven’t drank enough to have to piss. Go finish your beer."

Nightfall gave Makai a withering look. "Well, thank you for your concern." Glad for the assortment of daggers the king’s men had supplied, he let his fingers close casually over one nestled in the folds of his tunic. "But I’ve been urinating since I was born. I think I’ve got a feel for how it’s done now."

One of the swindlers moved in. Makai’s glance cued Nightfall to the other`s position behind him. He took a sudden side step, as if to walk around the bouncer. As he moved, he freed the dagger from its sheath, though still keeping it concealed. It was not his way to initiate violence, only to finish it.

The swindler whipped his hand, clutching the mug, through the space where Nightfall’s head had been a moment before. Beer splashed Nightfall and Makai, puddling on the floorboards.

Nightfall whirled to face this new threat. As the swindler cast off the mug to reach for a weapon, Nightfall buried his dagger in the man’s kidney. Blood ran down his hand, a warm contrast to the cold, sticky beer. Having lost the element of surprise, the second swindler dropped his mug and drew his sword. The tankard struck the floor, scudding across the planks, beer washing the wood beneath his feet.

Nightfall twisted his knife free, letting the corpse drop unceremoniously to the floor. The second swindler charged Nightfall. The squire tensed. Now that first blood had been drawn, it had become a straight fight. Against stronger men in greater numbers, Nightfall knew he had little chance to win. But I don’t have to win. I just have to make an opening to escape.

The swindler thrust for Nightfall’s abdomen. Nightfall sprang aside, trying to guess Makai’s position even as he anticipated the swindler’s next strike. The blade missed cleanly. A shout rang through the common room. The door to the back room swung open, and footsteps pounded on the catwalk overhead. Reinforcements. Great. I can’t even handle what I have. Nightfall made a split second decision to turn the combat into an in-fight rather than draw his sword. The swindler swung high. Nightfall ducked beneath the strike, trying to render the longer weapon useless. As he moved, he jabbed at the other’s thigh, more from habit then any hope that the blow might fall.

The swindler jerked back his leg, redirecting his strike. The abrupt, single foot movement on wet wood stole his balance. He fell, twisting to roll. In the all but nonexistent instant when the man’s throat was bared, Nightfall struck with the speed and accuracy of a snake. Two dead.

Nightfall prepared to turn. But, before he could move, Makai’s meaty arms enwrapped him from behind. The grip winched suddenly tight, slamming the air from Nightfall’s lungs in a pained grunt. The agony from his previous injuries leapt back to focus, but this time his ribs held. He struggled, hoping the beer’s slick wetness would make him harder to hold, but Makai clung effortlessly. The powerful embrace pinned his arms to his sides, and the dagger became useless in his hand.

Panic swam down on Nightfall. He tried to back-kick but found Makai’s legs too close to allow momentum. The worst he could do was bruise the bouncer’s shins. Twisting was gaining him nothing. Within moments, his arms had grown numb, and spots and squiggles scored his vision. Desperate, he swung his head. The back of his skull caught Makai squarely in the forehead, yet it was Nightfall who paid for the maneuver. A white flash like lightning blazed through his sight. Nausea racked him, and he felt his consciousness slipping, replaced by a constant, dull throb in his skull.

Makai’s voice sounded distant and graveled. “And now, you little shit, I’m going to break you like a twig."

A gust of air over wet flesh revived Nightfall enough to think. He felt Makai begin to settle his weight backward to snap Nightfall’s spine. In the instant Makai prepared, Nightfall hurled himself over backward, mentally trebling his weight as he did so.

Though he did not have far to fall, Nightfall came down hard, cushioned by Makai. Bone snapped, soft and sickening. Makai screamed. Twisting free, Nightfall lowered his weight to normal, pausing only to slam the dagger’s hilt into the bouncer’s throat before scrambling toward the back door. I ’m free.

Nightfall had scarcely reached the knob, when the memory of the breeze of an opening door returned. Since the back exit was still closed, it could only have come from the front. The oath-bond screamed a warning, its language pain. Hating the moments it cost him, Nightfall glanced over his shoulder.

The front door stood open. Gray evening back-lit Edward Nargol in the doorway, clutching a spade. Between them, Nightfall counted seven men, an assortment of bodyguards, thrill-seekers, and butchers. To the prince’s left, a man slunk off into the shadows, looking vaguely familiar, though Nightfall did not waste time searching memory for the man’s identity. He seemed to mean the prince no harm. But a strong-arm man at Edward’s back drew and cut for the prince’s neck. And Edward seemed wholly oblivious.

"No!” Nightfall whirled, hurling his dagger. The blade spun past Edward’s cheek and buried in the assassin’s throat. Clawing at his neck, the man behind Edward collapsed.

The expression on Edward’s features mixed horror with rage and betrayal. “Sudi-" he started. Then the thunk of the fallen corpse must have registered, and two men with swords sprang for Edward simultaneously.

Nightfall rushed to Edward’s aid, far too aware of the five men between them and with little hope that either he or the prince would come through this alive. Even as he took the first step, Edward’s spade cleaved air. It crashed against an attacker’s skull, dropping him instantly. Edward reversed the direction of his strike, using the longer pole to ward off his other opponent. Despite certain death, Nightfall could not help feeling impressed. I’ll be twice damned. He did find a use for the spade.

On the catwalk, the sound of bolts clicking into place jerked Nightfall’s attention from the fight. He glanced up. Above him, three men rested crossbows against the catwalk’s railing, every quarrel aimed for Edward.

The prince seemed to be holding his own against the swordsmen for now, so Nightfall turned his attention to the bowmen. Two running steps gained him the momentum to leap. He sprang for the catwalk, a sudden drop in weight sending him airborne. He caught the bars of the railing.

"What-?" one began.

Before the men on the catwalk could move, Nightfall used a thought to treble his mass again. A crack echoed through the confines. Nightfall’s support disappeared, as the railing pulled free. Then, the certainty of death surged through him, and he plummeted, willing down his weight as he fell. A prolonged scream told him that at least one of the crossbowmen had fallen with him.

Nightfall hit the floor feet first, then dropped into a roll. Even as he moved, the boards shuddered twice as other men landed nearby. But, where Nightfall had tumbled feet first, the others had flipped over the rail. The screams changed to pained moans. All three crossbows clattered to the ground, and the railing shattered, driving a fist-sized stake of wood into Nightfall’s thigh.

Nearly incapacitated by pain, Nightfall lurched to his feet. Ruthless and unceasing, the oath-bond stung like a hive of bees. Driven to action, Nightfall concentrated on the magic to help him bull through the agony in his leg. He looked toward the door, afraid of what he might see.

Edward had dropped the spade for his sword. He stood in the doorway, exchanging thrust and parry with a murderer and a gambler. Three corpses littered the barroom floor at his feet. The last crossbowman on the catwalk was staring down at the carnage, his eyes wide. Grittmon and Tadd the Mouth stood behind the bar. The informer seemed uncertain of his next action. Grittmon held a familiar brace of jeweled throwing knives.